Meet Me on the Battlefield
by E-quaintance
Summary: He thought he was haunted by the war. He wasn't wrong, but he also wasn't right either. AU, set in the Firefly-verse (or, the one with fugitives and space pirates). No prior knowledge necessary.
1. Welcome Aboard

**Disclaimer** : I don't own _BBC Sherlock_ or the _Firefly-_ verse _._

 **Summary** : He thought he was haunted by the war. He wasn't wrong, but he also wasn't right either. AU, set in the Firefly-verse.

 **Author's Note** : You don't need to have seen _Firefly_ to read this (though I highly recommend watching it at your leisure, since it's amazing), so that's why it's not in the crossover section. This should just come across as any sci-fi setting, but if you have questions, please ask! And I hope you enjoy yourself because this was crazy fun to write - the _Firefly_ setting lends itself so well to the _Sherlock_ characters, who woulda thunk it?

* * *

 _Year 2519._

* * *

In the empty distance between the Border planets and the Core worlds, space was quiet and still and so utterly predictable.

He hated it.

It was as if the Alliance had the power to schedule the orbit of the planets around the suns, to schedule the orbit of the moons around the planets. If any object dared to deviate from its course, they'd send out naval ships, cruisers armed with the power to atomize spacecraft in a blink, and then order it back to its perfect place: back on schedule, tick tock.

John Watson knew the Alliance couldn't really move the heavens. But as the Firefly-class transport ship flew gently across the inky blackness, he also knew it didn't matter. The Union of Allied Planets acted like it controlled the 'verse either way.

At times, John was thankful the war was over. But then he would wake up, panting and paranoid, seeing only the blood of his comrades soaking the ground like rust-colored oil, spilling over browncoats and ratty combat boots. He'd hear the screams, feel the dirt under his nails and the sticky, syrupy quality of blood between his fingers from an open chest wound that would just not stop flowing, no matter how much pressure he applied. The private died within minutes. He hadn't the time to grieve.

In the end, he'd seen enough death and destruction for a lifetime. Far too much.

The war was over now, though, the Alliance-sanctioned history books claimed triumphantly, the Independents were vanquished. The 'verse reset back to the default position: back on schedule.

John scrubbed at his face, rubbing away the shadows under his eyes.

There was no point in reminiscing. He had a crew to feed and jobs to complete. He needed to be a Captain right now, not a soldier still haunted by a war eight years gone. Straightening his back, Captain John Watson, ex-army doctor and current space pirate-slash-smuggler, climbed the ladder out of his bunk and then marched steadily down the foredeck, heading toward the bridge.

Slipping under the wide arch of the doorway, John quirked a smile in his pilot's direction, his boots clacking noisily against the metal floor as an unvoiced 'hello.' The wiry man gave a high jump, startling away from whatever he was doing.

"Captain!" Anderson greeted, aggressively shoving his collection of tiny tyrannosauruses and velociraptors away from the dark-blue image monitor that had been acting as a pool for the dinosaurs to play-drink from. The display was picking up nothing but deep space, and around them, knobs and buttons blinked green, calm and at ease. Anderson turned to John, smiling sheepishly, "I thought you were with Greg. He's been in a strop for hours."

John rolled his eyes, rocking back on his heels. "Because we're picking up passengers on Persephone." It wasn't a question, but Anderson answered anyway, grimacing down at the toys on the ground.

The argument was weeks old, ever since John had first brought it up after they finished with the latest job (collecting foodstuffs from an abandoned Wren-class transport set adrift, not as much cargo as expected, earnings likely reduced, their own food and water more closely rationed until the next job). Everyone had agreed that more money would always be a good thing, but collecting passengers was an entirely different deal to uphold. John thought the ticket prices were well worth the risk of nosy tourists poking around and being a general nuisance. Greg disagreed wholeheartedly, claiming he had a bad feeling about it, whatever that meant.

Normally John would defer to Greg's instincts. After all, the older man fought right beside John during the war, seeing his own share of fire and bloodshed and yet still managing to come out of it alive. But they needed the money, and John was captain, not Greg. He had made his decision, and he would deal with the consequences, good or bad.

Anderson leaned back in his seat, catching his eye, "Him and Sally were whinging about it during breakfast. Molly showed up about half-way in, though, and they seemed to drop it for good."

Molly Hooper, their resident genius of a mechanic, could not contain her joy at the idea of ferrying new people to Athens, a small Outer Rim world on the edge of civilized space. It was a popular destination for people looking to escape the slums of Persephone and move along to the more industrial Border planets for work. Molly, bless her heart, was clamoring for fresh faces and seeing new scenery of the 'verse. John was absolutely using her pure-hearted happiness as a weapon to sway Greg and Donovan to his side.

"And you?" he had to ask. Anderson almost always respected John's choices, but his relationship with Donovan—a mercenary who could get very loud and very heated against his nonnegotiable decisions—did throw the pilot's allegiance into question.

"We may be married, Cap'n, but I understand why we need this."

The support was nice to hear, even if Anderson would break under the will of his wife when push came to shove. He had one person on his side, and that's all he needed.

"Thanks," he said anyway, smiling.

He turned around after Anderson nodded, wandering down the hallway and into the galley, taking in the unwashed plates stacked on the side of the table and the torn package of a fruity oaty bar left lazily on the counter. He brushed the wrapper into a wastebasket and surveyed the rest of the room with a critical eye.

Their rationed water was getting low, but once they get paid for the cargo, the dishes could be cleaned. Everything else looked okay, imperfect and cheap, yes, but more importantly, durable and practical.

When the passengers arrive on the ship, he should ask everyone to share each evening meal together. Get to know them, show Greg he was worried for nothing. If anything, Molly would like the chance to talk to new folks.

John nodded once to himself and passed by the kitchen table and mismatched sets of chairs.

If Greg was in a mood, he'd make himself scarce, find a little place of nowhere within this claustrophobic spaceship to hide out and think. Molly's scene was the engine room at the end of the hall, so that was out. So were the crew dorms, too obvious a place, as was the cargo bay floor, which was a spacious, open-air platform easy enough to see over when standing on the catwalk. That left the few hidden compartments on _Masir_ not already being used for smuggling the cargo and the lower level infirmary and passenger dorms.

Deciding to check the infirmary first, John stepped carefully down the metal stairways, aware of his off-and-on-again limp. He needn't have gone all the way down, however, since his first mate walked into view at the top, having just left the engine room and wearing a loose frown. His eyes were warm, though, when their gazes met.

"Hey John," Greg greeted politely, offering a little burst of a wave.

Molly poked her head out, beaming at the two of them like a shining star. " _Masir_ is purring. Anderson's doing a great job flying her."

The three of them tossed genial words back and forth for a bit before Molly left to compliment Anderson in person. In the tense silence that followed, John and Greg stared at each other, before the silver-haired man seemed to slump where he stood. He made his way down the stairway at a much faster pace than the doctor had, and John waited patiently, leaning on the railing.

"You're right," Greg said upon reaching the floor, not averting his eyes, holding it. "We need easy money, and passengers are the best bet in that regard," his eyes turned stony and hard, unyielding, "but Sally and I are going to keep our guns on us at all times. No chances, okay?"

John agreed easily, it was a reasonable addendum. He himself wasn't going to part with his standard issue officer's pistol, passengers or no. "As long as you don't shoot any of them," he joked, grinning at the smile his second-in-command sent back.

Greg leaned his back against the railing beside him, and they shared a look full of too much meaning. John closed his eyes to ward off seeing the same expression on his friend's face that he saw in the mirror this morning.

This time the quiet was comfortable and companionable.

"She'll stay afloat, mate, always has."

John hummed noncommittally, massaging his sore leg expressionlessly.

…o0o…

As a seasoned smuggler who dealt with Outer Rim businessmen and -women for eight long years of disreputable services, it was a known necessity to bring muscle for the drop-off. There was always a risk of backroom deals and middlemen getting greedy, trying to skim the pay. Even just for protection on the way _to_ the meeting, walking through crime-heavy slums and dark alleyways, the extra arms made for a good, safe plan.

Greg and Donovan flanked John as they traveled through the streets of a low-income district on Persephone, the sign name unreadable over the graffiti and painted rags marking an unusually high number of warring gangs.

"I hate dealing with CAM," Sally whispered fiercely once they'd passed a large ring of gritty, dead-eyed teenagers, her hand hovering over her holster as her eyes keenly flickered back and forth for any sign of trouble. Greg kept his lips pressed tightly together, keeping a similar level of lookout but managing to appear relaxed to an outside viewer as they strode quickly through the loud, smelly streets.

No one was going to disagree with her.

Charles Augustus Magnussen was a slimy, despicable creature who preyed on the weak and vulnerable. His habit of parading his slaves around like property, just for show, for _their_ benefit, made Sally want to shoot him in the face at least few times. But he was also a businessman, one who had a good reputation for delivering on what was asked, and he had been at least somewhat genial for all their previous dealings.

"I want to punch his stupid Core-bred face," she mumbled to herself. Greg snorted despite himself and even John couldn't withhold a thin smirk.

No one knew if Magnussen was from the Core, he dealt in secrets for all but his own, but it was as good a bet as any. The man practically leaked of an Alliance upbringing, immaculate and cut-throat in a way that even the lowest of the low brand of criminals wouldn't dare try. As if the group needed another reason to dislike him.

Minutes went by in silence. A group of dirty children ran by with sticky hands and a jingling of stolen treasure in their irregularly-patched pockets. They were close – perhaps about five minutes away from the meeting place CAM set up.

Sally had just started to relax when John raised a single finger, his hands still held slack near his hip, the movement covered for all eyes but theirs. His expression remained calm. Greg forced himself not to tense, but Sally tripped a little as they moved along, trying to not break stride.

Then, as if they were distracted by one of the sleeker, newer transport ships just now setting down in the docks, Greg and Sally stepped back in one synchronized move. At the same time, John lunged forward two steps, and in the gap created between the three of them, two armed men bumped into each other, stumbling together in surprise at the change of their targets' positions from where they had lunged forward from the sidelines.

"A welcome present from CAM?" Donovan sneered, her holster already empty as she leveled the gun at the thin man with a scar across his left eye. Greg was similarly holding the other assailant hostage, his own pistol pressed snugly against the large, bulky man's chest. John stood back, his eyes sharp and cold.

"No," he answered, since it didn't fit with the pattern, "he's didn't send them. They've been following us for a block, must have heard or seen something to tell them we're here for business."

Donovan didn't blush at the subtle reprimand, but she did scowl harder. "Now what, boss?"

John raised his chin, looking around the criminals' heads to share a look with his first mate. Greg nodded, slightly, barely even moving, and John breathed out a long sigh. With a coordination born from years upon years of working together, the two smugglers pistol whipped their attackers in one smooth motion no one else saw coming. As their muscled bodies fell forward, Donovan danced back a few steps to avoid her toes getting pinched.

"Onward?" she asked casually, and they moved back into position, eyes forward but always, always aware.

…o0o…

Dealing with Magnussen always put the crew off their food, so once the transaction was complete and John told him where the cargo was hidden, the three of them ducked out of the meeting as fast as polite society allowed. The bag of gold coins from their troubles lay underneath layers upon layers of fabric, unnoticeable to even the trained eye. The money would go a good way in restocking foodstuffs and buying repairs for _Masir_ , especially since ship parts weren't exactly cheap.

"I should have at least spat at him," Donovan bemoaned regretfully, and Greg shook his head at her while John stalked, stone-faced, ahead. For someone who had a background as a mercenary, could even be said to _still_ be a mercenary, Sally was unusually attached to her emotions and letting them interfere with her work. How she had made it so far in her field—for so long and with such great scores—was interesting in and of itself, especially when one takes into account how green she sometimes acts.

"That wouldn't have been wise," Greg said quietly, since he felt like someone should.

Sally rolled her eyes, moving quicker to fall in line with the captain's steady strides. "We still picking up passengers?" she asked lowly with the start of a glare on her dark features.

John stared ahead. "Yes."

She sighed hotly at the answer but remained by his side, not falling back to be next to Greg, as if it were some sort of compromise.

Just this morning, she and Greg had agreed that passengers were trouble, but for wildly different reasons. Whereas the ex-soldier worried about the unknown dangers of new people, Sally didn't want to deal with the bother of cleaning the ship and preparing food for a larger mass of people like an everyday tourist boat, especially since it took a dig at her pride that they needed to collect revenue from _ferrying_. She took pride in her job, but being seen in the community as a simple transport when she knows her worth to be so much more was jarring.

"I asked Molly to get us some customers before we left," John added after they turned a corner and merged into a crowded market place a few blocks away from where _Masir_ was perched at the docks.

As they walked along the way, they passed stands selling grilled meat of a questionable source and other non-food-related types of peddlers were scattered the campus like candy wrappers littered along an open field, crinkly and begging for attention. At the side of the dirt street, across from a train of people slowly making their way inside a Wren-class transport ship headed towards Boros, two Alliance officers in the uniformed purple armor were muttering between themselves, leaning back with casual glances around the market.

John felt his fingers tighten into a fist, could practically feel Greg doing the same behind him, and they calmly passed the purple-bellies, avoiding their eyes like any citizen from a planet not as well off as the Core worlds would do. Greg finally fell into step beside the two, making two long, fast strides forward.

"What're they doing here?" Greg wondered under his breath, his brown eyes wide and nervous, "Alliance rarely sets foot on planets like this."

"I don't know," John responded, just as troubled by the new development. "I don't like it."

When their ship's bulky mass came into view, the trio breathed a sigh of relief at the sight. _Masir_ meant safety, even with a gaggle of annoying passengers on her back. Anything to get away from the Alliance's dogs.

Donovan strode intently through the main airlock doors just as two young passengers slipped by, giggling to each other as they lugged a suitcase and purse behind them. Sally ignored Molly's earsplitting smile as she chatted with a potential customer, disappearing inside without looking at the man.

Behind the stranger, sitting on a utility cart, was a large, cube-shaped container mixed in amongst a backpack and leather suitcase. John and Greg hung back in the shadow of the ship, watching Molly and the man both curiously and carefully.

The first thing John noticed was that the stranger was holding an umbrella in the crook of his arm. The second thing he noticed was the man was tall and lean, holding himself straighter than a metal pole in the ground. As he made conversation with his strongly defined Core accent - face a mask of arrogant disinterest that immediately made John hate him vehemently - Molly reached forward to lay a hand on his elbow in friendly comradery. He jerked away like her touch burned his delicate skin, and John moved forward before he'd even realized it.

Greg hung back, his eyes hooded as he took mental notes on the man in the bespoke suit that didn't have a speck of dirt on it.

"Hello," John interrupted coolly, sliding beside Molly and offering his mechanic a quick flash of a smile to put her at ease while he hijacked her attempt at drawing the tourist in. "You looking for passage to Athens? We're a bit full at the moment, but there's a transport ship just around the corner headed to Boros, you should give them a look and then see if you could transfer planet-side."

"No," the man stated, raising his chin, dark-blue eyes flashing. "I think your ship will do just fine."

John barked a laugh. "Did you not hear me, mate? I said we're full."

"Captain Watson," he said icily, shifting on his feet a little so his body stood directly in front of his odd pile of suitcases. "You're a thirty-year-old captain of a 03-K64-Firefly spacecraft with deep ties to the Independents. During the Unification War, you fought and lost the Battle of Serenity Valley." At John's thunderous look, looking about ready to punch him, the stranger continued more quietly, gripping the arched handle of his brolly in a white-fisted grip, "I'm not saying this to make an enemy of you, doctor. Captain. I only wish for safe passage to Athens."

They stared at each, the air thick and heavy, ready to spark at the slightest provocation. Meanwhile, Molly had shrunken in on herself, sending wide-eyed looks back at Greg, who was slowly making his way over.

"No," John answered finally, mirroring the abrupt finality from man's previous answer, and he stalked up the boardwalk and into _Masir's_ belly with a tone of something settled for good.

He didn't see the man's face fall and desperation etch itself into every line of his body before he could pull himself together and slide the mask back over his eyes. He squared his shoulders, straightening even more.

Greg hurriedly followed John, not looking back, and Molly moved to follow them, sending an apologetic glance over her shoulder.

In the stale air, the stranger called out, and this time the tired, worn quality was audible in his voice for just a second, "Please wait, Captain Watson!" At the slight falter in the shorter man's step, he continued at a normal volume, "I can offer you ten times your ticket fare."

 _Ten_ times? Everyone on the cargo bay floor in hearing range turned and stared at him, and the Core man shifted a bit at the heat behind the two ex-soldiers glares. One of his hands (pale, shaking slightly, from nerves?) reached out and grasped the handle of his cart in a tight death grip.

" _Please_."

No matter how much John hated him, hated what he represented, he couldn't refuse the blinding amount of money this man was offering. Greg and Molly were looking at him, dumbfounded, and John knew what his answer would be just by looking at them.

"Welcome aboard."

.

 _tbc_

.

 **Author's Note** : I'm thinking another two chapters, maybe? Or maybe more? I need to finish the first episode's plot and introduce a few more main characters, but I could potentially include more adventures after this starter, if I wanted to. Anyway, if you have any questions, feel free to ask! And if anyone is OOC, let me know as well, please.


	2. Introductions

**Disclaimer** : I don't own _BBC Sherlock_ or the _Firefly-_ verse _._ Also, some of the dialogue was copy-and-pasted(ish) since I couldn't find a better way to say what I wanted, but I tried not to do that for most of this story since that's lame.

* * *

 _Year 2519._

* * *

The airlock doors suctioned closed behind the group with a mechanical hiss, closing seconds before _Masir's_ engines rumbled awake. As the ship lifted into the air under Anderson's steady hands, there remained a tenuous, unbalanced silence on the cargo bay floor.

It certainly wasn't the best start for a two-day long journey in an enclosed space.

Captain Watson didn't much care, standing with his hands crossed over his chest and a dark, tight expression on his face as he looked over the passengers and his two unsure-looking crew. If everyone kept to themselves—or at least, if the Core tosser did—they could do some easy flying and get paid enough gold and silver to skip no less than four of the more undesirable jobs they had lined up.

His gaze skimmed over the two attractive women passengers, both looking to be in their early thirties or late twenties with full cheeks and laughing eyes, landing on the older lady in practical clothes, before ultimately being drawn back to the suspicious umbrella man.

No one seemed to know what to do now.

Molly coughed when the quiet didn't seem to end, and then pinkened when the sound attracted too much attention from the mix of confused and wary people. "Sorry," she apologized, ducking her head and tucking a strand of hair behind her left ear.

John shook himself, clearing the wool from his mind, and scanned her and his second-in-command. Greg's eyes met his, narrowed calculatingly, and the doctor turned his head to look at the pile of too-large-for-the-dorms suitcases.

"Well!" Greg exclaimed suddenly with a burst of energy, and the entire group eyed him except for the Core man, who sighed under his breath, slumping. "How about Molly here shows you ladies, and gentleman," he nodded to the only male passenger, "to the passenger dorms, while I unload the larger packages off to the side of the cargo hold."

"Thanks," the pretty blonde beamed, and Greg looked away before her friend with the stylish curls could throw him another suggestive wink.

"That's very kind of you two," the elderly woman added lightly to both him and Molly. She had a kind face, lined with age and a history of smiles, and he decided right then he liked her. "You know, I don't think we've all been introduced," she reproached gently, "I'm Mrs Hudson. And you, dear?"

Greg smiled at her, bowing his head. "Greg Lestrade, first officer." He raised an open palm to wave at John and Molly, respectively, "and you all know Captain Watson. Next to me is the wonderful Molly Hooper, our mechanic."

Molly grinned, scrubbing a hand down her coveralls before offering a jaunty wave. "Hello!" she chirped.

The blonde woman from before tilted her head a tiny bit, watching them with an endearing smile. "I'm Mary Morstan, and my friend here is Janine Hawkins." Janine curtsied exaggeratedly, and when Mary shoved at her in mock embarrassment, she giggled happily. Mary joined in almost immediately. Their laughter was infectious, and soon the rest of the crew were looking at them fondly. The pure joy on their faces wasn't something the crew saw much of in the Black.

In Greg's peripheral vision, he saw the man take a slight step back and bump into the handle of his cart. The stranger didn't even seem to notice he'd done so, his expression an unbreakable mask, but within his eyes there was something Greg couldn't place.

"And you are?" John asked, following his first mate's tense look.

"Myc Stamford," umbrella man said, straightening. He shifted, like he was about to offer his hand, but he didn't make a move forward and his hands remained in fists by his side.

"Welcome." Captain Watson surveyed them, dragging his gaze around to capture the entire group. "After Molly shows you the dorms, you're to reconvene in the galley so we can lay down the ground rules." John included, belatedly, "happy travels," and turned on his heel, heading up the stairs.

Molly made a come-hither motion and started walking, passing the stairway, only to pause under a rounded doorframe to give the four passengers time to join up with her. Mary and Janine settled smoothly by the mechanic's side, Mrs Hudson coming up the rear holding her frumpy bag to her chest, and together they waited for the last holdout.

He looked like he'd rather do anything _but_ follow them to the passenger dorms.

Without being asked, Greg walked over to the pile of suitcases, holding out a hand for the wheeled utility cart. Myc watched him move closer, his eyes flinty, almost glacial in the glow of _Masir's_ artificial lighting. But when the ex-soldier reached for the waist-high container, there was a barely audible, "Please be careful, it's valuable." When he glanced up, Myc's face was frosty once more, and Greg wondered if he'd imagined the soft, vulnerable look.

"Sure, mate," Greg said, putting just enough dismissiveness in his voice to make the man glare. It made him feel loads better about everything, and he could tell the man knew that it did. Then the smirk dropped off his face and he said, more seriously, "I'll treat it with care, don't worry. Now off you go."

Myc nodded, sharply, and moved to join the group of women watching him curiously. "Apologies for the wait, Ms Hooper, everyone," he said, looking straight ahead.

"No worries," Molly murmured, and they moved out.

Behind them, alone on the cargo bay floor, Greg set about stacking suitcases and storage boxes. Mike's fancy container was heavier than he expected something of its size and height to weigh, and he stumbled in surprise at the extra pounds. He couldn't help wondering what the mysterious rich man was carrying around like a treasure box off to Athens.

…o0o…

After Molly finished with a shallow tour of the ship's main facilities, she ushered the four passengers into the galley while they waited for the rest of the crew to arrive. Donovan was already there, snacking on a protein bar in the corner of the kitchen, leaning on the counter and appearing for all the worlds unconcerned about anything and everything. Molly introduced her as _Masir's_ co-pilot, the deceit easy and smooth on her tongue from familiarity. No law-abiding, non-pirate ship had a need for a mercenary.

Myc turned to Sally almost immediately, catching her off-guard with the sudden interest on his face. "Do you enjoy flying a Firefly-class ship, Ms Donovan?" he wondered. She didn't know why it felt like he was studying her far more intently than she could read for simple small talk like this.

"Erm, yeah, I suppose."

His eyes jumped over her face, seeing something, she didn't know what. Apparently finding what he wanted, he relaxed, resting the tip of his umbrella on the floor with a mild _tap_. "I've never flown in a Firefly before," he offered to the assemblage at large, and then turned to Molly, "Your ship is very beautiful."

Their mechanic preened at the praise. "Thank you, Mike."

Mary joined in, saying, "The addition of extenders really helps the ship remain stable. I remember hearing stories about this model shaking so much no one could walk more than a few feet before falling over."

"Well, _Masir's_ a smooth flyer now," John contributed, walking into the galley from the direction of the bridge and exchanging a grin with Mary. Her eyes crinkled in the corner, relaxed and companionable, and the doctor felt a bit lost staring into them. Myc scoffed, covering it as a dainty cough, and the two glared at him, expressions souring at once. Janine and Mrs Hudson just looked amused.

"We're just waiting on Greg and Anderson, Cap'n," Molly informed him.

As if it was rehearsed, the first officer chose that moment to duck into the galley. At the generous words of hello from the crowd, Greg smiled. "Nice to finally feel welcomed," he teased, poking John's arm and settling comfortably by the shorter man's side. Their combined front was the cue to start.

"Anderson, our pilot, won't be joining us for this meeting. He will, however, be joining us for dinner each night," the captain explained, "as will you folks. Just the one meal each day until we land. Otherwise, you're free to move about."

"You're welcome to the dining area at all times of the day," Greg edited, reading the group's expressions carefully as he continued, "but the bridge, cargo bay, and engine room are all off limits unless you have an escort."

The group nodded acceptingly. Myc looked like he had expected as much but still wasn't happy about it.

"If you need any of your things, Molly or Greg will escort you right now. Otherwise, you're restricted to the passenger dorms and dining room."

"Any questions?" Greg asked.

When no one said anything, the group was dismissed. Molly joined up with Mary and Janine, walking with them back to the cargo hold so they could collect their things to bring back with them to the dorms. Myc left without a backwards look, disappearing silently. Greg moved to follow him, feeling something off about the man, but Mrs Hudson's question about meal preparations had him turning away to show her where they kept the supplies since Sally had skipped off somewhere else.

…o0o…

The group of passengers and crew regrouped a few hours later for a lovely evening dinner full of spices and color that Mrs Hudson had kindly put together. Chipped, uncoordinated bowls were full of steaming food that smelled enticing and fresh. The crew, used to bland packaged foodstuff and processed protein bars instead of a reimagined meal with changing flavors, added a few extra spoonfuls to their plate.

"Thank you for dinner, Mrs Hudson," Myc said politely, finishing off a little bite and wiping his lips with a napkin like a proper Core world gentleman.

There was a chorus of similar sentiments around the table and Mrs Hudson dismissed the thanks away with some humble words, but she did add, "I'm not your housekeeper, dears, so don't make it habit of asking me to fix your food."

Greg shoveled another helping into his mouth, stuffing his cheeks full. By his side, John was chatting up Mary Morstan and ignoring the rest of their guests. Sally was similarly engrossed in speaking with Anderson, caught up in their married little bubble, but he let them pass since Anderson had been stuck on the bridge for most of the day and then some.

"So, what brings you all to Athens?" Greg enquired loud enough for most of the table to hear and feel included in the conversation. Since John wasn't acting like the captain, he might as well. Molly leaned in, excited to hear the stories, and even Myc raised his head, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Janine grinned at the attention, excitedly saying in a faint Border world accent he couldn't place, "Ohhh, have I got a story for you all. I used to work as a secretary for one of the Blue Sun firms on Spinrad. You know the place?"

Greg and Molly were shaking their heads, but it was Myc who answered, quietly, "It's one of two moons orbiting Bernadette, a populated Central Planet in the Core. It's considered a close second to Londinium, the first planet terraformed in the exodus of Earth-That-Was, at least in terms of the population size."

Janine blinked at the factual delivery, but she was still smiling even though it faltered a bit. She tried to catch Myc's eyes, but he was busy staring down at his plate with an unsure expression on his face. "Well, aren't you a walking encyclopedia of information!"

"Why'd you leave?" Molly questioned, eager to get back to the stories.

She winked. "Well, I ran into a certain nurse with big, lovely dreams to heal the 'verse. We decided to head out to the Border, maybe even the Outer Rim once we got settled with the change. It's where we'll be able to do the most good, you know?"

"Aww," Molly crooned, "that's lovely. Is it Mary who's the nurse?" she wondered in a hushed tone, like it was a secret. Janine glanced fondly over to her friend, nodding with a smile when she noticed how close the two medical professionals were huddling as they talked.

Greg leaned back, resting a hand on his full stomach. "That's nice of you and Mary. How about you, Mike? What're you planning to do on Athens?"

Myc narrowed his eyes at Greg and said, still staring, "Become a detective."

It sounded like an insult – an insult directed at _him_ – but Greg couldn't figure how it was supposed to be a barb at all. He wasn't a detective, never even thought of it as an option, and there was no shame in being an honorable member of law enforcement for Border worlds. And if it was a dig at his curiosity, it wasn't a very good one. "That's great," he said instead of voicing his confusion. Myc turned back to his food, poking at little chunk of meat in the corner of his plate.

Conversation continued to flow for the rest of the meal, not as stilted as Greg had initially feared. When it finished, and the passengers headed for their dorms for a night's rest, Sally set about washing the dishes (it had been her turn yesterday, but she had put it off until water use wasn't as closely regulated).

Bidding everyone goodnight, Greg followed John back to the crew dorms, climbing down his friend's ladder and commandeering the bed before John could object. They talked for a while, set up plans for their next job, and voiced their concerns over which engine parts took priority with their short money reserves. The conversation lasted for hours, and by the end of it Greg was too tired to climb back up to his room.

"Sleepin' here," he told John, crawling into the bed and closing his eyes. John rolled his eyes but pulled up the covers for the both of them. During the war, they'd shared much less space between them than this wide bed.

"Don't steal the blankets," he ordered in his Captain voice.

….. … …

A sudden crinkling sound of static woke Greg and John up at about the same time. John shot up, stumbling over the covers in his haste to move, immediately alert and grasping the air for a gun that was always kept hidden in a compartment in his desk. As Greg awoke, instead of going for his weapon, he rolled off the bed and crouched down, on the defensive.

After a second of bleary understanding, Greg unbent and rubbed his neck. John chuckled tiredly. "We sleep in?" he wondered even though he still felt tired.

"Didn't feel that long," Greg sighed, rubbing an eye.

The sound crackled to life again, and this time they could clearly hear Anderson through the transmitter. "Captain, you need to get up here. _Now_."

John didn't waste another second, rushing up the ladder as fast as he could. Greg was right behind him, moving like he hadn't been about to fall back asleep just moments ago.

On the bridge, Anderson was looking anxious, fiddling with his fingers. "Someone sent a signal over the cortex to the nearest Alliance cruiser. I scrambled the message, but I know they at least got our location."

" _What_?!" Greg hissed, confused, "How—who—?"

John's face was as pale as his first officer's, but it quickly hardened. "We've got a rat on the ship."

"On it," Greg said, and he moved faster than he ever had.

...o0o...

Meanwhile, on the cargo bay floor, Mycroft settled a hand over his package, leaning on one knee to rest his forehead against the cool plastic. He practically melted at the touch, bone tired but appreciating how utterly _alone_ it was here. He could feel himself start to fall asleep, but the low sound of scuffing footsteps had him rapidly uncurling and struggling to his feet. Just as he turned to face the sound, he felt a body slam into him and the two crashed to the ground in a bruising thump.

Instinctively, Mycroft struggled back, and his training kicked in without him noticing. From the ground, he wrapped his legs around his assailant's chest, using his elbows to push the body over his own head in a burst of adrenaline. The other person groaned pitifully, hitting their head straight on, and Mycroft used the other's moment of weakness to scramble upright and appraise the situation from the better vantage point.

Sitting on the floor, his upper body curled around his head, was first officer Lestrade. Mycroft stared, the data not making any sense, why wasn't it making any sense?

He wasn't given any time to fix his math, though, because Greg chose that moment to steel himself to the pain. The older man clambered into a standing position, his arms suddenly raised and pointing a standard officer's pistol—a Liberty Hammer, model B, used during the War but with extensive personal modifications—directly at him. The expression of utter _hatred_ in his eyes outperformed the pained scrunch of his eyebrows.

"You snake," Greg spat, tightening his hold on the gun and walking closer. Mycroft couldn't stop himself from taking a shaky step back, and at the move, the safety clicked off. Mycroft hurriedly raised his hands in surrender. "What did you tell them?"

Mycroft swallowed, eyeing the barrel of the gun. He couldn't stop his gaze from going back to his box, though, and the officer noticed. He said, before Lestrade could turn to the box, not that, never that, "I've talked to no one except those present during dinner, officer."

"You're a liar."

"No, please, think—" he started to say, but the ominous sound of another gun's safety being turned off froze the words on his tongue. Greg just looked surprised and confused, turning his head around but keeping the gun trained on the younger man.

Mary Morstan stood tall, positioned halfway down the staircase and using the height to her advantage. She held her pistol like a professional, her eyes just as detached and cold as the space outside the ship, except for the smug half-smirk on her lips. "Don't take another step."

Greg cursed under his breath, raising his own hands alongside the other man.

It seemed it was the end of the line for them. No miracles left.

She took a step down, pointing the gun more forcefully.

"Mycroft Holmes, you are bound by law to stand down."

Greg's mouth fell open in surprise. What? She wanted _him,_ the poncy Core world brat? Looking over at the man, Greg could finally place what had been in Mike—Mycroft's eyes when Mary had first introduced herself to the group. It had been _fear_.

What the hell was going on?

.

 _tbc_

.

 **Author's Note** : thanks for reading!


	3. Battle Stations

**Disclaimer** : I don't own _BBC Sherlock_ or the _Firefly-_ verse _._

* * *

 _Year 2519_

* * *

Special Agent Morstan dropped down another step, her hold on the Alliance-grade gun firm and unyielding.

Greg felt his heartbeat stutter, old images from the War getting caught in mental cobwebs even though _now was not the time,_ but then his vision shifted as the tall, posh criminal edged a half step in front of him, forcing him to look over the man's shoulder so he could still see Mary. She smirked, as sharp as freshly cut diamonds, and Greg wished he could see the Core man's face just this once, mask and all.

"You've been a hard mark to follow, my dear, so careful," she said, honey on her tongue and darkness in her eyes, "but your cargo can only be so small."

Mycroft tensed, and Greg wondered if maybe a small part of his mind shouldn't be wishing this was all some sort of misunderstanding.

"What'd he do?" he asked in the pause, slowly moving an inch towards his discarded pistol, hoping against hope that the Fed didn't know anything about _Masir's_ reputation. Keep her talking, he told himself, and if he was also curious, so be it. "Kill his parents for the family fortune?" he sneered, part for the effect and part because he was genuinely angry at how easily he had dismissed the man as an arrogant twat instead of a cold-hearted criminal.

She was all smiles and saccharine sweetness when she reminded him, "I told you not to move," and without any hesitation jabbed her pistol in his direction with the confidence of someone who acutely knew what she was doing and how to do it.

He stepped back, raising his hands in the air, his skin prickling as each second ticked by in watchful silence. Mycroft was as still as an ice sculpture by his side, but Greg couldn't trust the fugitive even if he hadn't seemed like the criminal type. Core worlders were never to be trusted, and he couldn't believe he had almost given this one a chance.

Mary leisurely took another step, moving with a predatorial grace that had been intentionally muted during all the other times Greg had spoken with her.

What the hell was taking John so long?

He searched frantically for a way out, feeling the burden of leadership on his shoulders more than ever. "How about we keep Holmes in the passenger dorm until your Alliance cruiser comes to pick you up. Then we part ways, what's done is done." Greg knew it was a long shot, but it was still a reasonable offer. It would make everyone happy, even though it also had all the smoothness of a first draft.

Her upper lip curled as she scanned his face with the air of a lazy analysis. "I think not. You're carrying a known fugitive across interplanetary borders. This entire ship is culpable."

There was small, soft grunt and then a blur of movement.

Greg moved on instinct when the fugitive made a swift move for the first mate's discarded gun. He snatched the man's arm in a steel grip and pulled him back to his side with as much force as he could, dragging the man back a few steps and was met with surprisingly little resistance. Mycroft faltered, pale and wide-eyed, and he wasn't struggling, just staring defiantly up the stairs. Morstan laughed, relaxing now that the battle lines were drawn clearly in her favor, and her face had smoothed out a bit.

" _Chill_ , Mycroft," Morstan ordered, voice tinted with the condescending self-righteousness he recognized from stills of government officials on Londinium. She grinned at the word, like it was a joke, and Mycroft growled low in his throat, his arms hanging loosely by his side.

"I don't want to kill you," she continued, softly, sounding more like the Mary Morstan who had giggled with Janine and smiled at Molly. It felt like whiplash, and the difference was so stark Greg's hold on the man loosened. Mycroft didn't seem to notice, staring intently at the Alliance operative. "I just want the cargo you stole. The Alliance is willing to forgive your insubordination, Antarctica, if you come peacefully."

Mycroft opened his mouth, but she wasn't done, speaking in a kind, soothing voice, like they were all friends here, "We wouldn't want a repeat of Anthea, hm?"

The world tilted on its axis. As if in slow motion, Greg felt himself be shoved backwards, and he landed on the cargo bay floor the second time tonight. His hands grappled for a hold as he went down, and he felt the smooth, cold edge of Holmes' container, the cause of all their current troubles. Blinking away the spots in his vision, Greg realized three seconds too late that someone had screamed, high-pitched and surprised, and it cut through the static in his head like a gunshot.

Except… no gun had been fired. He peered over the edge of the box and stared.

Mycroft Holmes was gripping the Liberty Hammer with none of the comfortable familiarity he had expected a fugitive of his reputation to have. The aim was true, though, pointed unerringly up the stairs as Morstan hissed like an angry street cat, her own gun held, shaking and wobbly in her left hand, back at the man. A thin, sleek dagger protruded below the right side of her collarbone, and the red spreading outward like a blooming flower didn't look superficial to Greg's experienced eye.

"You shouldn't have done that," she spat, her right hand clenching the hilt of the blade, the whiteness of her fingers bright against the dark red of her blood as she pulled the weapon out of her chest with no more than an angry grunt. The squelching sound of tearing flesh echoed in Greg's ears, and he had to swallow down the bile.

Holmes' lips thinned, but he didn't answer her. He just watched, cold and calculating.

Before Morstan could move, the man seemed to come to a conclusion. Greg recognized the desperation in his eyes moments before he did something he couldn't walk back from, and the first officer shouted, scrambling upright with his hands raised in surrender, "Now wait just a second here! There's no need for killing." Especially on _his ship_.

"Glad to hear that, sweetie," Morstan said, and this time her voice was ruthless, without even a hint of anything except murderous intent. The hand she was using to staunch the blood flow shined maroon in the light. She followed his eyes and tried for a self-deprecating smile, but it was as false as all her other personas, so when it failed to elicit the response she wanted, she scowled and hefted her gun a bit higher. "If you don't restrain the fugitive right now, Gregory Lestrade, your captain, crew, and passenger will be killed on my command."

"Hawkins," Mycroft explained aloofly before Greg's brain could even start to understand the new threat. "Janine Hawkins is Agent Morstan's partner. She's holding your crew hostage as leverage."

"Did you _actually_ buy her story about saving the Outer Rim?" she laughed piercingly, "Oh my dear, you are too good."

Greg face was ashen, something heavy and frozen rolling around in his stomach. Mycroft spared him a half-second glance, and there was no mockery on his face. If Greg wasn't feeling like the gravity had just suddenly been switched off and he was freefalling, he might even say that the man looked concerned.

John, Molly, Sally, Anderson, Mrs Hudson. He couldn't _not_ trade one life for theirs – the man was a criminal, no less – but that didn't make the ugly feeling of wrongness disappear as Greg slowly approached the fugitive. Mycroft watched him out of the corner of his eye.

"What did you steal?" Greg asked quietly, just for the other man's ears, before his brain could catch up with his mouth. It was too late to take it back, but some small, angry part of him didn't want to remain in the dark about this anymore.

In a span of a single breath, but which felt like a million years to him, Mycroft Holmes turned the gun to the ground and loosened his grip in surrender. He faced Greg with his entire body, giving him his full attention, and held the weapon forward, handle out. When Greg took a step closer, near enough to see uncertainty shining through the cracks in his mask, making Mycroft look lost and _young_ , he got his answer:

"My brother."

…o0o…

The group of crew members and their one elderly passenger were holed up in an empty shuttle, sitting on the floor across from each other and tied up with apparently the best rope the Alliance could find. Agent Janine Hawkins coolly surveyed them, her lilting Border moon accent noticeably absent as she occasionally barked orders for them to stop fidgeting or making small talk. They would grudgingly subside before starting back up again whenever her back was turned.

"She's _Alliance_?" Donovan asked for the fifth time, mostly to herself as she fought with all her will power to combat the unnatural feeling of cotton enmeshed in her brain. She closed her eyes when it started to feel like a knife was stabbing her head over and over. "How did we miss this? I thought it was Stamford."

John shifted, twisting his wrists with casual interest. "That's probably not his name."

"He seemed kind," Molly added quietly, her hair obscuring her face as she huddled as close to her captain as she could. "…I liked him."

John looked over at her, his eyes softening, and he wanted more than anything to assure her that everything would be alright.

Janine snorted, and the sound made _Masir's_ sweet mechanic flinch. John fists tightened uselessly behind his back.

The Alliance mole had taken Molly Hooper hostage first, held a gun up to her head without a care in the worlds, and ordered him and Anderson to the empty shuttle before John could help his first officer. While they were being restrained, Molly didn't stop apologizing, and Anderson jabbered nervously about Donovan's whereabouts, white with the fear that Sally had been killed in her sleep. It had been a relief when the officer brought the mercenary into the shuttle, groggy but alive.

Mrs Hudson raised a brow, the only one here who didn't seem all that bothered with being a hostage for an Alliance agent. "So who is he? This criminal you've caught?" She said _criminal_ like the word couldn't be further from the truth, and Janine predictably scowled at the insinuation.

"Mycroft Holmes," she answered, raising her chin and looking down her nose.

John wracked his brain for any mention of the name – be it from casually browsing the cortex or from the more recent wanted posters he reviewed on a weekly basis – and came up short. It was an odd name, and he knew with certainty he had never come across it before.

"A bit young, isn't he?" Mrs Hudson wondered unconcernedly. "How could the lad have possibly made a name for himself so quickly?"

Janine narrowed her eyes, wondering if she was being played. John could relate, seeing as how Mrs Hudson hadn't bat an eyelash at the weird name. He glanced over to Donovan, and her dark face was raised upright, fixed in a pained grimace as she studied their passenger with too much intent for her to not be following a similar line of thought.

"He stole precious Alliance cargo," Janine finally said, crossing her arms over her chest. She continued slowly, like she was generously giving them a warning, "You don't know what he's capable of."

As if on cue, a shrill yelp reverberated down the hallway and into the shuttle. Janine raised her pistol, giving them a dark side eye as she slowly stepped out of the shuttle and carefully made her way out of the hostages' sight for an update on her partner.

Anderson didn't waste a second before saying under his breath, "Last I checked, Cap'n, we were in the Red Sun system. I think we might be a couple hours past Greenleaf if she didn't mess with the nav system."

John shook his head before Anderson could finish. Greenleaf was too populated a planet to try and escape from the Alliance, especially considering the strict landing procedures put in place a few months ago to regulate the increased drug-smuggling problem. Due to the planet's strong tropical landscape, the large drug companies that had set up shop in the area had an increasingly problematic relationship with the black market.

"Dyton," Donovan offered with a tight look at her husband. "It's one of Greenleaf's moons, the old homestead," she explained further with dislike thick in her voice.

"Our old home," Anderson clarified delicately for Mrs Hudson and Molly.

John nodded. It wasn't exactly new information for him, and he didn't care what their beef was with the moon settlement. As long as they wouldn't be chased off the planet, it was their best chance for a momentary refuge.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, dears," Mrs Hudson interjected kindly. "You still have two Alliance agents on your boat. Do you really think it's a good idea to kill a Fed?"

Donovan didn't seem too troubled by that, her face shadowed with a history of bloodshed and a familiarity with fighting for her own survival. But no, Mrs Hudson was right. Killing an agent would make everything worse. They needed to keep their wits about them.

"No murdering," Captain Watson directed. "We do this the right way."

Donovan exchanged a glare with Anderson, who grimaced into his lap and avoided her eyes. John stared the mercenary down until she angrily nodded in agreement, Mrs Hudson smiled in encouragement, and Molly breathed out a relieved sigh as she rolled her shoulders and dangled the broken rope in front of her.

At their startled and proud looks, Molly grinned, a quick, bright little thing. "She didn't check my back pockets, and I _had_ just been in the engine room." As she set about speedily untying the knots on her captain, she added lowly, "And I think I also have a plan for Janine and Mary."

The group hastily set about untying those that they could while Molly explained what they needed to do: split up.

As Anderson headed towards the bridge with slow caution, Mrs Hudson accompanied their mechanic to the engine room. John and Donovan nodded to each other. They didn't have much time before Janine returned, potentially with her partner in tow, and they had the hardest job to do here.

.

 _tbc_

.

 **Author's Note:** To clarify, Mycroft had the dagger wrapped around his ankle. He used the fake-lunge distraction to free his dagger. As for Janine – Mycroft wasn't sure of her involvement with Mary until it started to take Captain Watson too long to arrive on the scene. By that point, he knew Janine was Alliance, so it was somewhere near the beginning of this chapter it was confirmed, though he did have his suspicions in the previous chapter.

This chapter is also shorter than usual; I was having a rough time making this – I had 3,000 words done two weeks ago but I deleted over half of it because it was a convoluted mess, and I thought I could do better. Next chapter will probably take a while since I need to figure some things out, but I love this thing, it's really fun to explore, so please bear with me.

Thanks for reading!


End file.
